


The Funeral

by shieldivarius



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Multi, Post Avengers (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shieldivarius/pseuds/shieldivarius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Natasha, it would always be <i>the</i> funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Funeral

Funerals had never before bothered her. People died. They died all the time, and around her people died more often than not, even if not necessarily by her hand. Natasha had been to funerals before—those of colleagues, for the most part, and only after she’d defected and moved to the United States, to S.H.I.E.L.D., because the Red Room didn’t mourn their dead.

Natasha had never found real cause to mourn the dead before now, either. Had never before been fighting away the doom scenarios invading her mind. Each more creative than the last, her imagination hadn’t let her rest since it happened and it was all coming to a head now.

She took a long breath, inhaling as long as she could and holding the air in her lungs in a bid to stop from hyperventilating. Standing here, just waiting for everything to start, was a worse form of torture than anything she’d ever experienced.

With Clint still in lockup, Natasha stood next to the casket alone, bracing herself with both hands on the edge of it. She refused to look around at anyone else in the room. Let them infer what they would about her posture, the broken, open misery on her face. She wouldn’t hide it, wouldn’t be fake or anyone other than Natasha Romanoff today.

Natasha Romanoff, whose heart was broken in tiny little pieces, and who didn’t have the faintest idea of how to start putting it back together. For as long as she’d known she had a heart, it had been cradled and kept safe by first one, and then two pairs of strong, steady hands. Natasha couldn’t be trusted to keep her heart safe on her own—she tended to batter it around and bruise it when she hadn’t locked it down and away altogether.

If the viewing would come to an end so they could get this over with, could skip straight to the part where she was leaving and going home to hide after the funeral proper, Natasha might not break down entirely right here. Why have a viewing for a closed casket, anyway? (No damage to the face but his chest had collapsed and there wasn’t anything the morticians could do about that.)

And, _черт_ , she still had to manage to stand and speak in there.

She could barely even breathe.

Footsteps behind her, and she could see the Director reflected in the polished wood in front of her.

“Agent Romanoff, off your feet before you fall off of them,” he said. His voice was low, practically spoken directly into her ear, and Natasha was grateful it wouldn’t carry but that didn’t mean she could move right now. Didn’t mean she could abandon the laughing blue eyes sleeping forever beneath her hands.

S.H.I.E.L.D. cremated. Someone—she didn’t know who, couldn’t remember, definitely didn’t know how they’d known—had told her she would get the ashes. Like ashes meant a thing. Maybe they’d give Clint peace of mind (Clint, who couldn’t be here, who had to be hurting worse than she was, who sat blaming himself in the bowels of the grounded Helicarrier) but not her.

“Natasha,” Fury prompted, and one of his hands cupped her elbow, tugged her back from the coffin. She stumbled, knew the graceless motion drew the eyes of everyone in the room, didn’t care but couldn’t look away from the floor anyway.

Fury led her to the front row and sat her down nearest to the podium. She registered Pepper Potts next to her, and someone—who cared who?—draped a (her?) coat around her shoulders.

Fury’s presence disappeared from beside her, footsteps following him to the podium. His steady voice, heavier than she’d ever heard it, came from the speakers and surrounded her.

Natasha didn’t hear a word, blacked out the story of his life. She knew it all, couldn’t stand to hear it in the past tense.

And then there was silence, and she knew she’d heard her name, but if they really expected her to get up and stand behind that podium and… and what?

The catastrophic aftermath in no way meant she had to reveal further what he’d managed to take to the grave.

Natasha stood when Pepper helped her to her feet. Started walking toward the podium, maybe she could say a word or two. Something simple, something…

Kept walking. Just kept going. Didn’t look over at the podium or back at the casket as she passed.

Let him think she’d managed not to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> http://shieldivarius.tumblr.com


End file.
